


Escape Island

by baja_king



Category: Fantasy Island, Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baja_king/pseuds/baja_king
Summary: A man arrives intent on taking up permanent residence on Fantasy Island. Roarke knows he is not who he claims to be.





	1. A Failed Escape

January 30, 1978

Rarely did this part of the earthly realm suffer foul weather.  The sun shone brilliantly while wispy cirrus clouds continued gathering thousands of miles above the calm ocean.  The occasional dolphin breached the otherwise glassy sheen of the sea.  Terns steered clear of the approaching Grumman Widgeon seaplane that made its way to a paradise tropical island.

The amphibious aircraft knew its course.  The pilot never lost his wonderment despite the regular trajectory.  Unlike some islands formed by volcanic activity, continental drift raised this particular island creating a magnificent upheaved rock formation on the leeside.  Three enticing waterfalls flowed into a lush lagoon that native inhabitants enjoyed.  The plane continued its descent.

Opening the shutters, Roarke looked towards the sky and smiled.  Once again, he anticipated new weekend guests intent on fulfilling fantasies.  He charged what was appropriate, which included several instances of young children doling out five or seven dollars (or whatever amount available) accumulated from savings gathered by way of porcelain pigs.

As he had done thousands of times, Tattoo ascended the tower, tolled the carillon bell, and cried, “De plane!  De plane!”

With the locals alerted to the incoming craft, beautiful young women raced excitedly from the main house wearing an array of brightly patterned pa’u skirts with matching bra tops.  Roarke calmly strolled onto the porch and waited for his dearest friend.  He knew Tattoo struggled as his age caught up to him and caused difficulty.  Tattoo seemed unusually out of breath when he arrived.  Roarke silently vowed to simplify the bell ringing process through automation.

Roarke smiled, “The day is young, my friend.”

Tattoo managed a smile, “Indeed, Boss.”

“Let us meet our guests,” said Roarke.

The two walked to the waiting Plymouth Volaré.  Roarke enjoyed sitting in the back seat next to Tattoo and allowed the indulgence of a new driver.  He wanted the locals to feel pride at earning a decent wage in a modern world while still embracing a rich and ancient Polynesian heritage.  This particular young man knew the way to the dock well enough to make good time.

Proving his worth, the driver arrived just as the Grumman Widgeon approached the dock.  Roarke and Tattoo exited the vehicle and took their places as dancers and musicians assembled.  As he had done countless times before, Roarke cued the ensemble.  Traditional Polynesian music filled the air and exotic women danced an inviting hula.  Greeters lined the pier ready with leis and beverages.

As the seaplane passenger door opened, Roarke smiled broadly and cried, “Smiles, everyone – smiles!”

A man dressed in a conservative black business suit with matching tie and white shirt exited the seaplane.  His black Oxford shoes brilliantly reflected the tropical sun.  The black argyle socks with primarily white accent offered the only hint of departure from a typical businessman.  The septuagenarian doffed his Tyrolean hat in appreciation as a young man in a sarong took his luggage.  His choice of a Mai Tai contradicted the formal presentation.

Tattoo asked, “Boss, who is that man?”

Roarke replied, “That, my dear friend is indeed the question.  Herr Reinhold Winkler is what he calls himself now, but that is not his birth name.”

Tattoo asked, “Why is he here?”

Roarke said, “Again, that is another good question.  He is a man of many regrets, of that we can be certain, but there is a darkness within his heart.  He claims he wishes to retire here on Fantasy Island and is scouting locations to build a home and perhaps do some farming.”

Tattoo assuredly stated, “He’s trouble.”

Roarke said with a slight tone of cynicism, “Yes.”  A beautiful young woman approached with a tray bearing iced champagne.  He took the glass, raised it in toast, and cried, “My dear guests!  I am your host, Mister Roarke.  Welcome to Fantasy Island!”

The German man smiled broadly, as he accepted an offer of a second Mai Tai.  He raised the glass in toast and cried, “Prost!”  He was intoxicated with the tropical environment.  The Mai Tai drinks proved pleasant but not having enough alcoholic content to satisfy his need.  Still, the gray-haired man with tidy mustache enjoyed the warmth, even though his country currently experienced 12 degree centigrade temperatures.

Roarke proved gracious yet concerned.  He needed more information.  Sometimes, answers only revealed themselves when he had proximity with his guests.  The conversation between the two resolved nothing.  Winkler reaffirmed his desire to retire on Fantasy Island as a simple farmer.  Roarke’s feelings rarely betrayed his rational thinking.  Winkler was not who he claimed. 

#HH x FI#

LeBeau resisted the urge to scream wildly when he entered his beloved kitchen.  He was gone three days but the minions of destruction saw fit to wreak havoc.  It was supposed to be a simple favor for his employer: reprise his alter ego Ipsy Dauphin, better known as the Great Dauphin, to help a young escapologist learn there was more to life than being the best in the world.  While he smiled inwardly at the results of helping with the fantasy, on the outside he barked orders to his staff.  Magician Gregory Udall left with his doting wife a better man.  LeBeau returned to his kitchen in shambles.

Keep busy, thought LeBeau.  The fantasy stirred up old memories.  He remained spry despite his being fifty-eight years old.  He despised prisons.  He bore his role well at Luftstalag 13 as a prisoner of war.  As if out of nowhere, he remembered his serial number when he was a caporal in the Armée de l’Air: 19176546.  Funny, as he always struggled with it whenever interrogated by the filthy bosche.

While he loved cooking, LeBeau made a decent career as an escapologist for twenty-three years.  His time with Hogan’s unit taught him to overcome his claustrophobia.  He had to give it up, not for himself but for the other up and coming escapologists trying to emulate his acts.  When a third magician died, LeBeau had to make his greatest escape – from the world.

Roarke knew his history, which comforted the Frenchman.  Roarke helped stage his death as Ipsy Dauphin, allowing Louis LeBeau to blossom as a master chef once again.  He enjoyed his life until two days ago when he remembered that he missed the excitement and danger.  He stormed out of the kitchen and onto a patio.  He lit a cigarette and began pacing.

“Quelque chose ne va pas?”

LeBeau turned around and saw his friend Tattoo.  He appreciated having a fellow Frenchman to commiserate with in his native tongue.  He went to one of the tables and sat in a chair.  Tattoo joined him.  LeBeau liked to sit and talk with Tattoo rather than standing, knowing how awkward it felt to be so short.  It put the two men at eye level despite the two foot height difference.

LeBeau sighed, “I miss it, Tattoo.  I want to do one more performance.  I have to do the Upside Down.”

Tattoo exclaimed, “Not that!  You could die like Harry Houdini.”

LeBeau laughed, “He didn’t die performing that trick.  Some college kid kept punching him in the stomach and ruptured his appendix.  He died on Halloween in 1926, you know.”

Tattoo said, “He was a great showman.”

LeBeau said, “Quite true.”

Tattoo said, “Well, if you must, you must.  I know a magician’s artisan.  I’m sure that he’ll make a tank for you.”

LeBeau said, “I still have mine.”

Tattoo stood, “I will speak with the boss and arrange everything.”

“Thank you, my friend,” smiled LeBeau.  He watched Tattoo hurry away and sighed.  Then he steeled himself to go to his house.  He had many memories adorning walls, shelves, and even the mantle above his fireplace.  His favorite picture took the prized place as centerpiece.  He thought about his friends from Luftstalag XIII.  Together, they achieved the impossible.  He knew he could do it one more time.

#HH x FI#

Standing offstage, LeBeau marveled at Tattoo’s ability to organize a show in one day.  He had to do it while he felt the fire and passion.  He watched Tattoo take center stage and listened with pride.  He fidgeted with the bathrobe tie.  People needed a sense of doubt to heighten the fear and dread.

Tattoo announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.  It is with great pleasure that the Fantasy Island Theater presents to you one of the finest tribute acts to the late magician the Great Dauphin.  Let’s give a big round of applause for the Great Dauphin’s Stepson.”

LeBeau entered from stage right and quietly thanked Tattoo before his friend exited stage left.  Only three people understood the Great Dauphin still lived.  That illusion must continue.  He took the microphone and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I will perform for you the trick made famous by the greatest escapologist ever, Harry Houdini.  I caution any who have a weak heart to leave now while I prepare for the Upside Down.”

As the curtain raised to reveal the water tank, LeBeau teased the audience as he fumbled about trying to untie the bathrobe.  The tank was already filled with water and at room temperature.  Submerging into a tank of cold water interfered with breathing and concentration.

After a moment of feigned ineptness, he removed the robe and discarded it to his right, revealing an old-fashioned men’s bathing suit from the early twentieth century.  He laid on the stage directly in front of the tank.  Assistants shackled his legs after he nodded, signaling that he had his lock picks in his hands.

LeBeau relaxed as the assistants used the hoist to raise him above the tank.  He embraced the rushing blood to his head.  Then the assistants dropped him head first into the tank.  Displaced water gushed over the sides and onto a tarp.  He heard the muted sounds of the orchestra playing _Asleep in the Deep_ , one of Houdini’s favorites.  He was already making good pace with the hand shackles.

His eyes locked in icy stare.  No – it was impossible.  The audience always looked like a black mass after the first three rows.  Within the tank, he usually could not even make those out due to the elevated stage.  Yet he saw a face from his past as clear as day in the audience.  His heart raced wildly out of control.  He began flailing uncontrollably as the lights dimmed.  He realized in horror that the assistants must be emplacing the cabinet around the tank.  Only one shackle undone, he pounded on the tank.

It kept getting darker even though LeBeau felt himself being extracted hurriedly from the tank.  For a moment, he felt nothing, but managed to open his eyes.  Someone covered him with a blanket.  A medic took his vitals.  He saw Tattoo and tried to speak but his throat was sore.

Tattoo reassured, “It’s alright.  We’ll take good care of you.”

LeBeau realized two men lifted him onto a gurney.  He coughed as the medic applied an oxygen mask.  He trembled not from the cold but from the fear.  He last saw that man at the Nuremberg Trials.  The tribunal found that man guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity.  He grabbed Tattoo’s arm and begged, “He’s here!  You must stop him!”

Tattoo raised his eyebrows and asked, “Who?”

LeBeau replied, “Hochstetter.”  His eyelids became too heavy and he succumbed to unconsciousness.  Tattoo turned and saw Roarke.  He felt extremely confused.  The Boss will know what to do.

#HH x FI#

Roarke sat behind his desk waiting for his guest.  He remained disappointed that he failed to identify properly the man calling himself Reinhold Winkler.  He held great love for LeBeau and his heart felt tormented that his friend nearly died.  He had concerns about LeBeau reprising the act in extreme haste but indulged the request.

Hearing that LeBeau claimed to see someone presumed dead raised several red flags.  It could have been a delusion caused by the change in pressure from the submersion process.  Roarke silently chastised himself for allowing the performance.  The utterance proved a curious deus ex machina.  Tattoo entered with the unwanted intruder.

Roarke sternly said, “I know who you really are, Herr Kriminalrat Wolfgang Hochstetter.”  He saw the brief flash of fear at recognition of an old name and rank.  The face twisted back to a placid slate.  Roarke continued, “Do not try my patience.  There is no record of Reinhold Winkler before 1945.  Wolfgang Hochstetter escaped the hangman’s noose in December of 1945.”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” sighed the man.

“I offer no asylum to men convicted of crimes against humanity,” Roarke flatly said.  “You were no innocent bystander.  You came here under false pretenses and have no intentions of repenting your actions.”

While Roarke successfully deduced his identity, Hochstetter dare not admit it.  He said, “You have no proof.  I am sick and tired of people who accuse every German my age of being a butchering murderer.”

Roarke calmly said, “You have been identified by one who witnessed some of your activities.”

“Bah!  Who?  Who dares defile my reputation?”

Roarke said, “You were at the theater earlier this afternoon.”

“Yes,” replied Hochstetter.  “So were two hundred other people.  What of it?”

Roarke continued, “You watched the performance by the Great Dauphin.”

“Bah,” cried Hochstetter.  “The Great Dauphin died ten years ago.  That man on stage is a fraud yet you accuse me of being someone I am not.”

“He is the Great Dauphin,” said Roarke.  “He wanted to retire and faked his death ten years ago.  Ipsy Dauphin remembers you, Herr Hochstetter.  He saw you at a very inopportune moment.  He remembers the time you interrogated him.  He vowed never again that any man would string him up by his thumbs.”

Roarke watched as the blood drained from Hochstetter’s face.  The man seemed briefly confused, desperate to connect the name to a face from the past.  Roarke knew the tribunal found Hochstetter guilty of murdering ninety-three members of Underground, fifteen members of the Resistance, and twelve prisoners of war.  Some defendants claimed they were following orders when they activated the gas chambers.  Hochstetter proved especially sadistic as he brutalized personally his victims for days before ending their misery.

Hochstetter finally spoke, “I suspect that is a lie.  You cannot string up a person by his thumbs.  It is impossible!  The thumbs cannot support a man’s weight.  If someone did such a thing to that man, his hands would be crippled.”

Roarke commented, “And you know this from personal experience.”

“Simple yet intelligent speculation,” said Hochstetter.  “I once had the good fortune to conduct business in New Mexico and witnessed an interesting ceremony.  There are people called Penitentes.  Every Easter several of them willingly reenact the Crucifixion.  They practice self-flagellation, wear crowns of thorns, carry crosses to a small hill, and then they are nailed through the palms and feet to those very crosses!  Their arms and ankles are bound with rope.  Otherwise, when they erect the crosses the weight of the body rips the hands to shreds.”

Roarke said, “Indeed.  They do not use iron spikes to impale the hands and heel bones as the Romans did.  Theirs is an act of faith and devotion.  Even the Romans bound their victims’ arms with rope to the cross.  The spikes immobilized the hands to prevent the victim from any attempt to loosen those ropes.”

Hochstetter scoffed, “That man is a fraud AND a liar!”

Roarke calmly said, “You will be leaving Fantasy Island.”

Hochstetter said, “If you are inclined to believe the Cockroach’s lies without any proof, perhaps it is best that I leave.  Guten tag, Herr Roarke.”  The two men in white suits said nothing until Hochstetter made his dramatic exit from the office.

Tattoo asked, “Cockroach?”

“Yes,” Roarke thoughtfully replied.  “Make sure that Monsieur LeBeau remains under guard at the hospital.”

“It’s all taken care of, Boss,” said Tattoo.

Roarke said, “Good.  The German authorities will not be here for another twenty-four hours.  I will deal with Herr Hochstetter.”


	2. Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

_War stirs in men’s hearts the mud of their worst instincts.  It puts a premium on violence, nourishes hatred, and gives free rein to cupidity.  It crushes the weak, exalts the unworthy, and bolsters tyranny.  Time and time again it has destroyed all ordered living, devastated hope, and put the prophets to death._

_Charles de Gaulle_

#HH x FI#

Hochstetter frantically packed his meager belongings.  He checked his Mauser P08, more commonly referred to as Luger semi-automatic pistol.  He inserted the parabellum cartridge, doubting that Roarke would simply let him board the plane.  The Great Dauphin lives!  Not for long, thought the Gestapo officer.  He missed his opportunity years ago in Paris.  He relented when news spread of the Great Dauphin’s demise.  Everyone believed it, including a detective as clever as himself.

The Cockroach proved irritating as a prisoner of war.  Hochstetter despised his testimony most of all at the trial.  Even Hogan maintained a sense of discipline and professionalism, confirming his theory that the man was Papa Bear.  With LeBeau, it was personal.  Hochstetter smiled as he recalled torturing the man.  Very few left the interrogation cell alive but he had his orders and at that time, he lacked time in rank to defy those orders.

Hochstetter demonstrated his investigative skills throughout the years.  He knew LeBeau led a double life as Ipsy Dauphin.  What eluded him was the reason why.  None of Hogan’s other men chose to change their identities after the war.  He helped dozens of men over the years elude capture.

All he wanted was his chance to stay hidden and live out his days.  Coming to Fantasy Island was a mistake.  Hochstetter needed some place even more remote.  South America remained a hotspot for the Nazi hunters.  As much as he wanted to flee, he needed to squash a certain annoying Cockroach named Caporal Louis LeBeau.

Despite his age, Hochstetter readily convinced a native driver to relinquish his jeep.  Lugers proved effective negotiation tools.  The young man did as told.  Hochstetter liked ordering about the inferior.  He even made the man load his luggage into the jeep.

“You know your place,” smiled Hochstetter.  “Tell me, young man, where I might find Louis LeBeau.”

The young man nervously replied, “The chef?”

Hochstetter snorted, “Chef?  Ah, yes, the chef.  Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” replied the man.

Hochstetter neared the man but remained out of reach in case the man found courage to attempt disarming him.  Hochstetter’s only advantage was his pistol.  He carefully said, “Where does he live?  Tell me!  Drei, zwei, ein…”

The man begged, “Alright!  Don’t shoot!  My wife is pregnant and needs me!”

Hochstetter bellowed, “NOW!”  He gloated and laughed as the man described the way to LeBeau’s house.  He climbed into the jeep, careful to keep his pistol trained on the bare-chested man.  He wanted to kill the man; lack of additional cartridges and rounds spared the man’s life.  He needed every bullet to go LeBeau hunting.

#HH x FI#

LeBeau tossed and turned in the hospital bed.  He kept replaying the events in his head.  Everything was going better than expected inside the tank until he saw Hochstetter.  It was as if he looked through a long tunnel and saw the Gestapo officer waiting for him.  Then he recalled the tribunals.  LeBeau testified personally against Hochstetter, as did Hogan and the rest of the core team.

Oh how he missed his beloved Marya!  LeBeau knew she played a risky part as a spy.  He loved her so much.  It was supposed to be a straightforward mission.  She arrived at camp with Wehrmacht General Hans Schreiber.  All she had to do was distract the man long enough for Newkirk to exchange battle plans in the briefcase.  Hochstetter arrived just as Marya and Schreiber exited the Kommandantur.  Without regard for rank or due process, he shot the both of them.

Gestapo superiors initially sought disciplinary actions against Hochstetter for such an act of cold-blooded murder directed at a member of the German High Command.  They changed their minds after the discovery of the false battle strategies.  Hochstetter received a commendation for eliminating dangerous and subversive saboteurs to the Great War effort.

No one grieved more than LeBeau but Hogan’s men did mourn.  For the sake of the operation, LeBeau postponed his vengeance.  He felt satisfaction when Hochstetter stood crestfallen as the judges pronounced the death sentence.  Yet somehow, the fiend escaped hours before the hangman’s noose could deliver the final justice Marya deserved.

LeBeau lost so much because of the war.  He decided he owed it to his beloved Marya to take care of matters with the greatest finality.  This time, Hochstetter would not escape.  LeBeau quietly got out of bed and examined the room.  He knew two guards stood outside the closed door.  Looking out the window, he saw additional guards easily in their white uniforms accented by the combined light of the last quarter moon and tiki torches.

Good, thought LeBeau.  Obviously, Roarke knew, or at the very least suspected, that LeBeau would escape the confines of the hospital to exact revenge.  The Great Dauphin silently laughed at the notion that a handful of police officers might apprehend him.  At least Roarke did not insult his intelligence by handcuffing him to the hospital bed.

It proved too easy to escape by way of the window, scurry about the small campus, and temporarily borrow a jeep.  LeBeau would pay the fine later.  He had a mission.  He had a good head start.  Eventually, the authorities would attempt to catch up to him at his house.  He needed his Pistolet automatique modèle 1935A, an old French semi-automatic pistol that Tiger gave to him as a small token of appreciation.

Quick in and out, back to the jeep, and LeBeau felt alive.  He vowed to avenge Marya’s death.  He turned on the two-way police radio.  For several moments, he listened to the usual chatter.  Officers checked in with the station.  Good, no news yet about his escape, he thought.  One officer broadcast an alert.  Wolfgang Hochstetter stole a courtesy jeep at gunpoint and was last seen heading towards Merganser Lane.

Delicious, thought LeBeau.  The detective somehow discovered where he lived.  He parked one block away on a side street and turned off the headlights but kept the engine running.  It would be dawn soon.  He still had the advantage of the changing shadows as concealment.  Then he saw the jeep flying down the road.  LeBeau put his jeep in gear and floored the gas pedal.

Hochstetter did not need the police interference and decided a hasty retreat was necessary.  He would have to try again.  He hated automatic transmissions.  They may have been easier for the weak minded to drive but he needed expert gear shifting capabilities.  He realized he was losing his advantage as the police vehicle started catching up to him.

A single shot pealed and Hochstetter ducked his head as low as possible while still being able to see out the front.  He felt very confused amid strange roads and shadows.  Dawn approached but so did a police officer intent on killing him outright.  If he was going to eliminate LeBeau finally, he had to expend a bullet.  He found a relatively straight stretch of road by miracle.  He had no time to take a proper sight.  He quickly glanced over his shoulder as he fired his pistol.  Then he ducked when another bullet whizzed past his ear.

Was that LeBeau?  Hochstetter tried squinting in the side view mirror.  His keen detective mind deduced that it _must_ be LeBeau.  Even though it was a police vehicle, it did not sound a siren or use the modern rotating light system.  Another shot pealed and Hochstetter began skidding out of control.  He realized his adversary expertly eliminated the driver’s side rear tire.

Hochstetter managed to get the jeep to the side of the road.  Horror pumped his adrenaline when he realized LeBeau was intent on running him down with the police vehicle.  He ran into the jungle, barely making it as the jeep crashed in between two trees.

LeBeau shouted, “I’m coming for you old man!”  He had Hochstetter on the run.  He was not a young man anymore but the dirty kraut was in his seventies.  As he continued the chase he shouted, “You filthy rotten bosche!  You’ll pay!”

For several moments, the two played cat and mouse, taking the odd potshot in an effort to eliminate the other.  LeBeau counted bullets.  He smiled when Hochstetter let loose several rounds.  Good, he was terrified, thought LeBeau.

LeBeau quietly said, “Bientôt tu seras vengé, ma chérie.”  _Soon you will be avenged, my darling_

#HH x FI#

Hochstetter’s bungalow was vacant of any guests or luggage.  Even the complimentary toiletries disappeared.  Roarke hoped that Hochstetter was simply on the run.  He knew that his unwanted guest stole a courtesy jeep at gunpoint and demanded directions to LeBeau’s home.  He held no ill regard for the young husband with pregnant wife.

LeBeau’s home proved undisturbed to the common eye.  Roarke realized that LeBeau’s semi-automatic pistol was missing from its display.  Roarke rarely lost control of situations because he planned fantasies to the minutest details.  Unfolding events were not of his design, however, and he had little time to resolve the situation.  Understanding the man’s ingenious nature, Roarke set out in search of the wanted fugitive.  Hochstetter’s fate was sealed; LeBeau needed salvation or else he would suffer damnation.  Find Hochstetter and he would find LeBeau.

Roarke expertly maneuvered the jeep while Tattoo sat anxiously in the passenger seat.  He knew that his friend worried.  Discovering two wrecked jeeps on the outskirts of town confirmed his worst fears.  Someone shot out the rear tire on one jeep where Hochstetter’s luggage lay abandoned.  The second jeep remained wedged in between two trees.  The two men must have entered the jungle.  Another jeep arrived with two officers.

“I want them alive,” said Roarke.  “They are both armed.”

Tattoo cried, “Louis won’t hurt you!  He is a good man!”

Roarke sternly said to the police, “He’s not in control of his faculties.  Use extreme caution.”  He turned to Tattoo and said, “Return to the main house.”

Tattoo protested, “I will not!  Louis is my friend!”

Roarke angrily said, “I don’t have time for this.”  Softening his tone he continued, “Louis is my friend as well but Herr Hochstetter brutally tortured him thirty years ago and now he wants revenge.  He has temporarily lost his good judgment.  Go, or I will fire you.”

Tattoo defiantly stated, “Very well.  I quit.”  He started running towards the jungle but Roarke grabbed him from behind at the jacket collar.  He snapped, “Let me go!  Louis needs me.”

Roarke said, “Come along, Tattoo.  There is great danger.  You will do exactly as I tell you to do.  Is that understood?”

Tattoo gulped, “Yes, Boss.”  He looked up in terror at Roarke at the sound of sporadic gunshots.  Both men understood that Hochstetter and LeBeau were close.  Tattoo feared for his friend’s safety while Roarke feared for LeBeau’s sanity and soul.  Tattoo struggled to keep up with Roarke, taking three to four steps for every one of his employer’s strides.

“Rest here,” snapped Roarke.

Tattoo had no choice.  He felt winded as a searing pain coursed from his chest down his left arm.  He leaned up against a tree while Roarke continued.  He dare not linger.  The pain subsided and he began walking through the jungle shouting, “Louis!  C'est moi!  S'il vous plaît revenez à nous!  Nous vous aimons tellement.”   _Louis!  It’s me!  Please come back to us!  We all love you so much._

#HH x FI#

Magic required intrinsic timing, planning, and patience; LeBeau mastered all three facets.  He counted bullets.  He needed just one to rid the world forever of Wolfgang Hochstetter.  LeBeau loved many women over the years and managed to part on good terms with just about all of them.  Marya Parmanova, however, died far too young in a brutal manner.

Hochstetter is down to two bullets and I have four, thought LeBeau.  He scaled a tree to gain a better perspective.  The police were in the jungle, easily discernible by their white uniforms.  Hochstetter stumbled into a creek bed.  LeBeau knew from that distance and angle that he could not hope to hit Hochstetter, but he needed the old man run down to utter exhaustion.

LeBeau fired one shot in Hochstetter’s direction and quietly said, “Maintenant, j'ai juste trois balles.”  _Now, I just have three bullets._   He heard a distant voice resonate through the jungle.  Tattoo sounded distressed.  He was about to call out to his friend when a shot pealed from the creek bed.  Good, he is down to one, thought LeBeau.

LeBeau climbed down the tree.  He heard another shot peal from the creek bed and smiled in fiendish delight: no more bullets.  He began his advance and remembered caution.  What if Hochstetter had another cartridge?  He fired a shot towards the creek bed: nothing.  Knowing the cunning of the Gestapo, it might be a clever trick to lure him in, or perhaps he really was out of bullets.  J'ai deux balles et il n'en a aucune.  _I have two bullets and he has none._

As he approached the creek, LeBeau heard a desperate gasp.  He saw Hochstetter cringing in fear at the sight of a wild boar.  It would not do if the great-tusked boar killed Hochstetter!  LeBeau fired a shot and the boar scampered away.  Hochstetter looked up at LeBeau in desperation.

LeBeau laughed, “We meet again, Herr Kriminalrat.”

“Cockroach,” gasped Hochstetter.  “It really is you.  Oh, such a long time!”  As he stood, he trained his pistol towards LeBeau.  The two stared, fingers poised on triggers.

LeBeau said, “You’re bluffing.  You’re out of bullets.”

“Strange,” said Hochstetter.  “I was about to say the same of you.”

“You filthy bosche are all alike,” said LeBeau.  “You all prefer lugers.”

Hochstetter shrugged, “They are more reliable than that Pistolet automatique.”

“You know your weapons,” said LeBeau.  “I’m impressed.”

Hochstetter said, “I certainly took plenty of those toys away from white flaggers and butterfingers.”

The slurs hit their mark precisely.  LeBeau squeezed the trigger just as a hand grabbed his wrist and wrenched it downwards.  He looked in shock at his friend Tattoo who stood boldly.  He pleaded, “I must do this!”

Hochstetter laughed, “My turn.”  Just as he pulled the trigger, Roarke arrived with several police officers and wrenched his wrist upwards.  One round shot into the sky.

LeBeau snapped, “Impossible!  He was out of bullets.  I counted.”

Roarke sternly said, “It’s over, Herr Hochstetter.”  He kept squeezing Hochstetter’s wrist until the luger fell to the ground.  Hochstetter cried in exasperation.

LeBeau turned his pistol towards Hochstetter and coldly said, “You murdered Marya Parmanova.  You will die.”

Hochstetter stared dumbfounded and asked, “Who?”

LeBeau spoke with ice in his voice, “Je l'aimais plus que tout au monde.”  _I loved her more than anything else in the world._

Hochstetter snapped, “Bah!  What do I care?  Go on, pull the trigger you filthy little Cockroach.  I should have squashed you years ago.”

Tattoo begged, “Don’t, Louis.  Let the authorities take care of this.  Please…you’re better than this.”

LeBeau stood immobilized.  He wanted to pull the trigger.  He miscounted Hochstetter’s bullets.  Did he miscount his own bullets?  Hochstetter deserved to die and he wanted to be the executioner.  It was one thing to kill during the hunt but the police had Hochstetter.  LeBeau was not a butcher.  He raised his arm straight into the air and fired.  One round fired.  Hochstetter nearly fainted, knowing that the man he despised could have done it.

Roarke calmly said, “Take him away.  The German authorities will be here shortly.”

LeBeau watched as the police took Hochstetter in custody.  He checked the cartridge in his Pistolet.  He laughed at seeing it empty and secured the weapon in his waistband.  Then he realized Roarke picked up Hochstetter’s luger and removed the cartridge.  It too was empty.  He nervously laughed, “I really did miscount.”

Tattoo asked, “Louis, who is Marya Parmanova?”

LeBeau sighed, “I loved her.  She was a brilliant spy – even cleverer than Colonel Hogan.”

Roarke said, “Come.  We need to get Tattoo to the hospital.”

Tattoo assuredly said, “I’m fine, Boss.”

Roarke said, “Boss?  I thought you quit.”

Tattoo said, “Oh that?  Well, about that, Boss…”  He felt a stabbing pain in his chest and said, “Maybe I do need to see a doctor.”

The three men made their way through the jungle, taking care not to go too fast.  Roarke kept his strides small and evenly paced.  He felt great pride for LeBeau.  He did not know who was Marya but LeBeau obviously cared for her very deeply.  War interfered with men’s lives.  LeBeau gave up much for his beloved country.


End file.
